False Pretense
by Ickle Penguin
Summary: [ au, yaoi & some het ] it was hella unnerving considering the fact his boyfriend was missing when a sociopath was on the loose. chapter one up. R&R.


**Title: FALSE PRETENSE**

**Author:** Ickle Penguin / Ruin (at LJ as artishlyruin)

**Disclaimer:**I do not own Beyblade. All characters belong to Aoki Takao.

**Ratings/Warnings:** MASSIVELY ALTERNATE UNIVERSE/REALITY and relationships are twisted around, histories are distorted and so on). Some language,_slash/yaoi/shonen-ai_ and some het, violence, death, drug use and so forth. I'd say about PG-15 or so. You've been warned. ;D

**Comments:**Okay so here it is, my massive Beyblade AU. 1863 words for the first chapter. Man I was a tad inspired for this. Anyway, pairings could go any way and I'm going to leave a lot of _subtext_ for people to interpret anyway they like. I just hope it doesn't seem out of character. I had fun writing this, so I hope you guys like reading. This is my first time writing a murder-mystery type so I hope my writing is good enough. Anyway, (crosses fingers) constructive criticism is appreciated and reviews are love. Thanks to Alex, Neffy and other people who helped with the idea.

* * *

False Pretense, Chapter One.

* * *

There is a simple price to pay for indulgence. Whether it was indulging in simple pleasures to the most deathly addictions – Brooklyn had paid the price. An addiction was after all shades of wrong and right. Dependence meshed with cravings and the ability to quit was lost under the appeal of euphoria. Whether or not he had regretted it was the question. After all sometimes addictions make you do the oddest things. Which was why – he was there, is all that came in conscious thought, and how he got there was a mystery – in _his_ flat slumped against a wooden coffee table, looking like a gorgeous wreck. He wondered if the drug made him a wreck or the fact he kept on coming back to the man who supplied it – Brian Levski. _He's above this – better, _he tries to think but words fail him

He wondered, often if not enough, if people were prettier wrecked. Brooklyn knew he was at least that – a mess of what was once a pretty face. He used to be a writer, you know, dabbled in the _Strife Chronicles_ once in a while. Has dozens of wasted yellow paper pads dedicated to a story that probably wouldn't be published anyway. Girls often fawned after him, chased him and adored him. After all, who wouldn't want to be a heroin in some loosely mythological based fiction novel? He gives an amused grin at the word heroin. Sometimes thoughts just spring to life in his head, words that don't connecting become sentences for a new chapter. That's just the way he works – like clockwork.

This pretty face isn't what it used to be, he muses. Ginger orange hair tossed, tussled and sticking out on the wrong ends. Eyes a tad sunken, eye bags crudely messing with smudged eyeliner. He's gotten paler, so pale you could almost see the traces of dark-blue veins (almost black in color) creeping itself slowly across porcelain skin. Regret, maybe, echoes as even more words spring to life in thought.

A door opens, there he stands – Brian. Silver hair, wine colored eyes and an expressionless face. He stands, blocking the brightness as he stands by the door so only faint patches of light enshroud them both. He approaches Brooklyn, kneels so they are at eye level. He whispers in his ear – his voice low, with faint traces of a Russian accent, "I need you to do something for me," Brian takes out a small bag of powder from his pocket and the thought of refusing never enters Brooklyn's mind.

* * *

"And for our top headline," Kane smiles brilliantly. His tone is serious, but there's certain warmness in the way he talks. He is dressed in a smart brown jacket and a white dress shirt. No one can tell he's wearing loose jeans and sneakers from where he sits. After all, we only see the upper halves of news anchors. It's his first job and somehow he just had a natural flair for reporting – what he says and his opinions attract half the viewers; the other half is just amazed by how blue his hair looks under spotlight.

He clears his throat, and looks at the camera sternly. Kane says with that sympathy-look in his eyes, "The Strife City Police Force has found yet another body. This is the fifth kill for whom; locals are calling the Strife-Strangler. The SCPF is doing the best they can to ensure the safety of the community but no leads are currently available. It is advisable to report any suspicious activity to the authorities. Channel 2, will try to keep – you the viewer, as updated as possible and here's Mathilda Knightly with the weather…"

Tyson Kinomiya watches the television intensely with a playful smile. He twirls a pen with one hand and bites his bottom lip. _God Kane looks amazing tonight_, he thinks. He stops spinning the pen and scribbles down today's date and next to it he writes: 'police know nothing.' He turns to the television and before a pink-haired upbeat almost pixie-like girl can complete the forecast – someone shuts the television off.

Tyson frowns at the mahogany eyed older man who is looming over him. He had the remote in one hand; a folder in the other. He sits across from him, jadedness evident; he smells like cherries and nicotine – Tyson notes. He acknowledges the older man's presence with: "Kai, give me back the remote. I don't know if I should bring an umbrella to work." There was an attempt of 'matter-of-fact' in his tone, but that died with the goofy grin he wore.

"Kane would have told me if anything worth knowing came up." Kai replied with a little tone of spite. "Kinomiya – I don't give a fuck if you and my cousin are _dating_ stop starring." He was dressed in dark denim jeans; they were tight and made for him, literally. A grey shirt with a grunge design, it looked almost wrinkled – black fingerless leather gloves and a white scarf completed the look. His face had strong accents of Russian softened by Japanese features. Skin was alabaster with no bruises or scruffs, except for his two cheeks that were tattooed with sharp blue triangles. Kai was the only one who could pull that off.

He places his feet on the table, black boots with laces and buckles, inches away from Tyson's face. Kai slides him the folder. These are one of those days Tyson questions his taste in fashion. He was wearing a red-jacket with a yellow-tee shirt under and blue denims that were neither falling off nor hugging the right places. He had a red baseball cap which he wore backwards. Just because he was fresh out of college doesn't mean he had to grow up just yet. Tyson picks up, and reads through the file. "Missing person?" He says reading through the file.

Kai gives a nod and rubs his temples, "Name's Brooklyn Mason. No one's seen him in a while. We're going to meet the _concerned individual _tomorrow morning"

"Concerned individual?" Tyson says almost humorously. Tyson had a little more enthusiasm in his tone. As exciting as the prospect of catching a serial killer was, they were going nowhere with the strangler case. "Like what his mom? Possessive wife thinks he's finally left her for some Hooker to go to Vegas? Ohh, it's the obsessed ex isn't it? Says here he's a writer. Fan took him hostage? Who is it?"

Kai sighs, takes his legs off the table and stands up. He approaches the door, and just before he leaves; he doesn't look at Tyson but he leaves with one word: "Tala."

* * *

Tala gets off work later than usual. He co-owned a bookshop and café with a struggling actor named Ozuma Gray. They were utterly different and they got along fabulously. Tala was proper and bookish while Ozuma was a _performance artist_ who often did liberation broadcasts. He checks his mobile again, frantically for the nth time that hour. If anyone was keeping up with Brooklyn's disappearance it was Tala Valkov.

He was after all the _concerned individual_. The streets of strife were empty at this hour. So empty that he could feel the echo of silence. The rustle of dying trees, the thud of his loafers against the asphalt and the sounds of a car horn beeping in the next street over this was Strife City. The crime rate wasn't exceptionally high _before_. Until people started showing up dead on sidewalks, and bodies were found in rivers. The only notable connection was strangulation. And it was _hella_ unnerving considering the fact his boyfriend was missing when a sociopath was on the loose.

Which is why, he asked for assistance. The police had their hands full, he had tried before. All he got was a 'We'll see what we can do,' from a cattish police officer. You think in this they take missing persons more seriously. He contemplated on putting Brooklyn's face in a milk carton once – but decided against it. So he did the next best thing. He asked Kai Hiwatari, best private investigator in the city, to help him out. When he left the store, an old vintage building with red bricks, he felt slight splatters of rain against his pale almost white-wash white skin – it had begun to drizzle.

His mobile vibrates in the pocket of his slacks. He pulls out his mobile, it flashed; '1 Message Received' he jams his finger against the read button._ "hey i hope the whole brook hunt gets better. want me to feat. it? i dont mind rly. did kai take the case? anyway call me when you can! ( o 3 o ) kane"_ He smiles after reading it. He has some history with the two blunettes. Well if you consider spending your entire childhood and period of teenage angst with them – _some history_.

Kai and Tala haven't been as in contact ever since college and_Brooklyn_. It was thirty shades of complicated really. To sum it up, Tala was utterly in love with the man who was basically the bane of Kai's existence. Hate was an understatement, really when he thought about it. But Kai never said a word about, and Tala never asked him to. Fear that if Kai actually protested – he would have left Brooklyn. Because in the end, who would you really die for? And who was worth living for? He was torn – that was the only word deemed appropriate. He felt a pit in his stomach sink deeper.

_Stop philosophizing god_, he thought bitterly. He continued walking down the streets of strife; he was about two blocks away from his apartment. The air felt thicker, colder against his skin. At the back of his head he felt something was wrong. But he dismissed it as the mid-October cold. He punched a few keys on his mobile as he was walking. He combed his hand through his bright red hair, and dialed Kane's number.

He took a few steps forward, seeing his street in plain view. The phone rang once. God it was cold tonight. He made a mental note to buy a thicker coat, something better than the dark-blue jacket he was wearing. The phone rang twice. He felt goose bumps creep across his skin. Something wasn't right. The phone rang thrice. He had stopped walking; in fact it was more like brisk jogging getting nearer the apartment. The phone rang four times and then he heard a _shrill scream_.

He turns to face the direction the scream came from. But it was too late – all he saw was a body and someone running the opposite direction. He hears it all, the snapping of the young girl's neck as a man in a black coat ran. He calls out, but his voice is inaudible. It feels as if something is caught in his throat. He's immobile stuck in a state of shock and disbelief. All he hears after the scream was someone on the other end of the phone going: "Tala what's wrong? TALA! TALA!"

It had begun to rain and Tala could have sworn he saw orange hair.

--tbc.


End file.
